Comrade I don't feel the same
by Alba Raile
Summary: Charon was never made to show affection. UnrequitedLW x Charon. Edited:


One shot for unrequitedLwxCharon. Please review :)

EDITED: because apparently song fics are banned. You can't do much fan fiction anymore. The song, if you want to listen to what inspired the story, however was:

Set to see it in a boys eyes - Jamelia

However the update might actually upgrade the story from its one shot status.

* * *

At first the idea of him would only creep into my head after a night of drinking or a particularly bloodthirsty battle. Drinking, as it does, would lower my inhibitions. The more scotch I managed to pump into my system the easier it was to raise my expectations of him. I could pretend his silence was not rude but brooding. I could twist his evident enjoyment over creating death into a sad tale of an unfortunate soldier who at fates cruel hands became an unwilling murderer with a contract. It's easy as a woman to invent such a fantasy. That tormented men need to be saved, _want_ to be saved. But Azrukhal had spoken those dark words which haunt me as I try to create an intoxicating scenario before I sleep. Charon deserved to be on the contract. His actions long ago somehow justified the lack of free will. It is a hard truth to believe but to watch him as he makes chilling music with his shotgun, is truly to look upon death itself. The carnage seems to fuel his passion, his eyes burn with excitement and he becomes more vocal than anything I could ever try to get out of him. Charon, The Ferryman, delivering us feeble mortals to death itself. To him I am nothing more than the boat, transport to his next kill.

2 years of travelling together and the thought always seems to be there now. Twisting it's way into my mind pulling me from thoughts I should be having, creating thoughts I would not dare to speak out loud. He is giving me a look I have seen many times before it is as if he can hear the sin inside my head. He turns his head to the left as if declaring his disinterest. The smoke from his mouth becomes a welcome distraction as he lets it rise slowly after each inhale from the cigarette. I swallow loudly not diverting my eyes for his figure.

In my ignorance I have tried to gain a reaction from him before. After waking up in the Citadel from my two week coma I thought he'd be glad to see me at least show some sort of positive emotion. However I was given a simple nod and followed out of the doors of Underworld once more. The denial created a fire in my chest I longed to put out. Megaton held celebrations for my miraculous survival and as per tradition, we drank at Moriartys until we were close to blacking out. Stumbling home I thought my plan was full proof. As he sat on the edge of his bed throwing off his boots I thought nothing of crawling onto his lap. Kissing along his rough neck only gained me a low grunt until I was thrown off onto the floor.

"What the fuck ?!"

"You do not know your actions."

However excited I was to finally receive some words from him it was completely covered up by the pain of rejection.

"I need you."

It comes out as a purr. One last chance to relieve the desperation.

"To survive. Nothing else."

At least he had the compassion to storm out and leave me and my small amount of dignity to wallow alone. Even now the memory mortifies me and I have not tried anything since.

We have just completed a particularly lengthy battle with the Enclave. It is hopeful that we have finally managed to rid the Wasteland of their existence but with the disappearance of the Enclave comes the disappearance of our common ground. There are no more strategies to discuss, no more weapons technique to be shown and no more battles to fight together. We will return home and fall into one sided silence until summoned by the Brotherhood once more.

The celebrations in the citadel from our victory do little to comfort me. I could easily drink on the other side of the room and find a decent paladin for the night, I could be laughing, dancing and joking, but instead in my stupidity I choose to sit with him in silence with only the sound of alcohol hitting the bottle each time we drink.

"We could leave" I mutter. Head back to the room, sleep with only inches between us.

"No."

It as if he finds the hidden meaning between my words. I want him in more ways than I can express but ever the diligent bodyguard he stays ignoring my advances.

You would think that he would want to let some emotions roam. God knows how many years he stood as a statue at the bar. Why wouldn't he want to let the principles of his stupid contract go. He probably fucks the same way he fights. Ruthless and without mercy and the thought just seems to spur me on. He could be happy even for those few moments of intoxicating thrusts and groans but he chooses not to and I am left in desire with no output. I cross my legs knowing that the vault suit will pull taught. I wear it only in battle with the Enclave, I want them to know exactly who is killing them. I also know exactly what the suit does to my figure and shape. I take a emphasised breath allowing my chest to rise slowly. The tight leather holds my breasts up nicely, they should be appealing, welcoming even. Instead I am only given a fleeting glance and he again turns his attention to his next cigarette.

I should stand walk away for another drink drag my fingers along his shoulders as I leave. I could lean over and give the base of his neck a quick lick. I could straddle his legs whisper in his ear. He should take me in the abandoned hall. The celebrations are loud everyone is here. No one could listen to the noises we could make together, primal, desperate. I just want to feel. I want to be set ablaze at his touch and burn. Instead I sit still across from him pathetically with no confidence to move and claim what I want to be mine.

He thinks of me as a child. It is hard to see others as equals as he towers at least a foot above us all. I want him in the way that a woman wants a man. Not out of childish comfort. He denies me even the warmth of another male, a distraction I could at least pretend was him as they grunt above me. Instead he glares at any that come close and none are brave enough to take the last few steps. Most nights I am left staring into a empty bottle balancing in the limbo I find myself in. Denied by him and unreceived from others. I glare at him quickly a small amount of anger rising from the frequent rejection. He meets my glare and holds his head firm. I know instantly I have lost yet again. I drop my gaze and return to slugging the stale scotch mournfully.

I know that romantically I live a pathetic fate. Dutifully pining over a male that appreciates his ammunition more than my companionship. At least it is a predictable fate. I will die or his contract will move hands. He will walk away without a glance or a farewell. All memories of me will be eradicated from his military moulded brain and I will be forgotten, nothing more than a name on his paper. He will continue to fight, people will continue to die.

I need him, only for survival.

He needs me, only for battle.


End file.
